Chokehold
by SilverCascade
Summary: Nightmares merge with reality in the mind of Matt Miller. His past mingles with his fear, streaking towards a torturous endgame. He is not sure if he will last long enough to change anything at all. Set after the Save Shaundi ending. One-shot.


**A/N:**_ Just messing with some angst and headcanons. This can be seen as a sequel of sorts to Junkshow, another story of mine._

* * *

_Where the bloody hell am I?_

Matt Miller blinked, eyes struggling against the darkness. The black circled him, a stifling blanket covering the room and seeping into every crevice and crack. He breathed hard, afraid to move too much in case he released some hidden wickedness. Patience was vital, he knew, and he waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness.

Minutes ticked by as he sat there, slowly bringing his knees up to his chin and clasping his hands around the ball that was now his body. Smooth palms inched across the sides, finding the roughness of chopped wood, and occasionally his finger would dip into a crack. A crate? It's far too big to be a crate.

A streak of charcoal melted out of the space.

"Fuck!" he whispered, heart in his mouth, body trembling. The figure was huge, twice the size of the cowering boy. The head was just another inkblot on the lighter night.

There was a flash of hot white light as the boy shook, the colour pouring into the room. Matt flinched as his arms rose to protect his face, spotting the fierce green, red and black through the haze. The lights were snuffed out again. His eyes widened, desperate to find the malign shadow before it found him. The dark had swallowed his nightmare, which now roamed free through its element. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again and again, rocking back and forth in a mock motion of comfort.

"Matty..."

The ghost of the familiar voice sent a shot of fear through his veins. _He can't have found me!_ The giant lumbered forward, darkness fading to a dusky grey as he vanished mid-stride. The boy froze. There was nothing he could do, there was nowhere to run; the man had returned to the shadows. The dank smell of his own sweat hung heavy in the air. He glanced at his balled up fists, and his icy white skin broke out in gooseflesh. _Oh God, oh God, oh God..._

No matter how much he prepared for it each time, when the large hands formed the devil's chokehold around his neck, the young boy would lash out instinctively and pummel the meaty hands. He would wear himself out physically, then scream for all he was worth, throat pulsing against the thick fingers closing tighter and tighter. The Luchador's mask gleamed as he boomed, cold laughter echoing around them both.

Matt awoke thrashing, the empty screams ripping themselves from his throat, clutching at the sheets in the unnaturally hot bed. He breathed in ragged gasps, and for a fleeting moment, being awake changed nothing - the firm grip of the king of the Luchadores remained on his neck as he writhed in pain, unable to breathe, struggling to wrench off the invisible claws. The tears of fear ran wet down his contorted face. His clammy hands tore at his invisible noose, his entire body covered in a light sheen of sweat.

The boy let out a deep breath as his eyes flickered open and darted around the room, mind finally free of Killbane's imagined vice. "Oh my _god_," he groaned in pain, pupils dilating as the adrenaline pumped through his body. Each shadow creeping up the wall turned into the masked villain he feared. "It's over. For now."

He sat still for many minutes, trying to calm his raging mind.

"He got away," Matt muttered, "and he knows I'm alive. He's going to _murder_ me." At that thought, his mind flashed back to the terrifying dream, and he shivered violently. Pulling the blanket closer around his scrawny frame, he sat up, rubbing tears and day-old eyeliner from his eyes and smearing black streaks across his cheeks.

Though the nightmare was a regular anticipation, the sheer volume of trepidation and blind fear it brought was something for which Matt could never prepare. This was the fifth day in a row the same thoughts pierced even his dreams with such darkness, and the frequency in nightmares had occurred because of recent developments in the Saints' ruination of the city he had once called home.

The worst news he had heard since leaving Steelport was of Killbane's escape. There had been a few months of quiet and some adventures along the way, and he even thought he had found love - a fluke, it seemed, but he and the girl had ended on a friendly enough note, despite their circumstances - but he had enjoyed peace, knowing that one enemy would be taken care of by the other.

The man hated him, he knew, because he had gotten away before the leader of the Third Street Saints stole the city from its previous Caesar's wrath. He had gotten away mostly unharmed, and though some collateral damage had occurred recently, he had been doing well for a boy his age. Not bowing to the weight of circumstance, but bending as to take the load in a sensible manner, he had gotten jobs where he could find them.

They were degrading occupations - Information Technology Technician, Technology Adviser, General Salesperson, Store Manager etc. - but he gritted his teeth and took them as they came. Even though he had endeavoured to seek out professions more suited to his interests, namely trying to seek a position as a white hat hacker, the organisations scoffed in the face of - in their words - the "untrendy youth who thought himself at their ranks". He knew he was as good as them. Arguably, even better. But their pride had not allowed them to take him under their celestial wings of protection.

So he did what he could and moved around the country to keep away from them, those loathed Saints, but he knew so long as he stayed away, they would leave him be.

But now that Killbane had escaped from their formidable clutches, the same principle applied to him: Killbane would live so long as he stayed out of the way of the Saints. Matt felt the tides of worry lap in again, and he clutched his sheets and took a deep breath. Killbane was always angry, and now he roved as free as Ares in his chariot to bring the rains of destruction. The boy had no doubt the huge behemoth of a man would seek out his favourite punching bag - and at this, Matt felt the need to rid himself of the expletives festering in his gut at his own set fate.

"Fucking wanker," he said, trailing to a halt from the viler words. The fury he felt was surprising, a surge of anger overcoming him. It was not fair, the way Killbane's size and pompous attitude incited such fear in his being, it was not fair the way the slight alteration of his own name - the dreaded "Matty" - should make him want to vomit, and it was not fair that a man who held too much brawn and too little brain had ruined his life. It was not fair, and the injustice made him boil over with rage.

But in a flash, the deep scowl gave way to frustrated tears that leaked from his eyes, dark rivulets sliding down his face. It was not fair that he could do nothing but keep running.

First Killbane took his freedom by snaring him into the Syndicate, poisoning his nights of pleasant sleep with rancid worry. He then left with Matt's beloved Kirsten, and now proceeded to steal his nights of decent sleep again. Matt had felt helpless when his world crashed down around him, even after he had done all he could to prevent it.

But since, he had tried to rebuild himself away from it all - away from the gangs, the girls, the death and destruction - and it had been a fairly pleasant experience.

Until now.

The more frequent nightmares starring the head Luchador ruined his mind, ravaging his brain and thoughts and clawing at his half-happiness. Sure, he dreamt about the leader of the Saints too, but those dreams were one in a hundred.

"At least in those I die by a single shot to the heart," he said to himself, pulling the blanket closer. "It's never a clean way to kick the bucket when it's that masked fucker, though. Never with him."

Fat tears dripped off his chin, drops blending into the night even as his fingers swept them away. He had barely been eating and sleeping for the last month since he had heard the news, and, glancing at his damp fingers, he realised how thin he had gotten; the bones seemed to strain against his sheer, ghostly skin. Wincing at the comparison his mind had made, he draped his hands in the blanket and away from his sight.

"I can't stay here," he murmured, "or I'm going to go crackers. Potty. Nuts. Loopity de fucking loop!" Matt laughed shakily, a dry cackle that felt odd, for he had not laughed in a long time. It was a derision of a laugh but it felt good to him.

The thin bed creaked as he stood up, and his knees mimicked the sound: he winced.

Matt stretched out, feeling around the papery walls of the motel room to find the light switch, before realizing it would illuminate his room to let anybody and everybody know he was awake. He squinted, blurred vision making the world swim, and headed for the window. When he threw open the mangy curtains, strong beams of moon flooded through the grime-ridden glass.

Droplets of liquid silver attached themselves to him as he stood in the light, bathed in the ethereal white. The shadows under his eyes were prominent as he gazed at the sleeping city before him. The occasional golden spark stood out in the dim night, and the dark silence sucked him into a mindset of endless quiet. His breath was cold and steady, and the warm wind poured in as he opened the latch of the window.

Pulling up his black boxers, Matt turned towards the small chest of drawers in the room. He threw on a simple ensemble - a t-shirt, a pair of jeans and some plain shoes - and stuffed the other meagre possessions he owned into a rucksack. He piled his sheets at the corner of the bed before heading to the bathroom. As cold water hit his face, he sighed and scrubbed the tears and make-up from his red cheeks.

Matt gazed at himself in the mirror and he saw a boy whose hollow cheeks pushed his cheekbones forward and whose wet blue eyes threatened to spill their wrath again if he did not do something. His ragged lips were torn from constant chewing.

"It's time to go," he whispered as he walked out of the bathroom and scooped up his rucksack. Dropping off the keys at the main reception's counter, he left the building with his head held high. Matt did not look back.

His cellphone, a shiny new thing he had picked up after saving up enough cash, rested in his palm, and he looked at it for two long minutes before dialling, the cool early morning air rifling through his hair.

"Fuck, she better pick up," he murmured. "I can't believe I'm sinking to this level."

The cellphone rang five times before somebody answered.

"Jesus Christ, you arsehole, it's six in the bloody morning!" The girl's voice was sleepy, and as she was about to slam down the phone, Matt let out his protest.

"Asha, wait! It's Matt."

She paused, and he could imagine her intelligent eyes widening. "Matthew? Matthew Miller?"

"Just Matt, please. It's been a while, but don't tell me you've forgotten how much I hate my extended name."

"What the hell are you doing calling at this time of the morning? Actually, what the hell are you doing calling at all?"

"It's around two a.m. here."

"Oh. Still doesn't answer my question."

"I'm in big trouble."

"It figures. What's up?" Asha Odekar did not sound as surprised as Matt thought she would.

"I'm coming to England in a couple of days and I need a place to stay. Can I count on you?"

There was a pause.

"Matt, I-"

"Please," he said, voice thick and straining to hold back his fright. "A simple yes or no will suffice."

"I'll see what I can do," she sighed. "Damn, what did you get yourself into?"

"I'll explain when I get there. I really appreciate this, Asha. Thank you."

"Just call me when you get here." The dial tone hummed in his ears.

Matt sighed, relief sweeping through him. Casting his gaze skyward, he pressed the phone to his ear again, ordering a cab to collect him in five minutes two blocks from where he stood. Clicking it off, he headed down the streets to the address he had specified: it would to do good leave as tenuous a link between his final moments in the States and his journey back to England.

"Home," he said, and smiled.

He turned the corner, his shoes smacking the asphalt, the suffused glow of the streetlamps his guide. The cab pulled up after a brief wait, a sleek yellow presence splitting the darkness, and he entered. After directing the friendly driver to his destination, Matt reclined in the back seat, hugging his rucksack close.

"I'm doing it," he murmured into the canvas material. "I'm going to get out of here."

He estimated that he had enough money in his emergency savings for the maneuver he was about to pull, and he silently thanked his paranoid nature for its few benefits. The cab driver's one-sided chatter was a comfort, and he apologetically told the man he was quite tired so he would not make good conversation. The man laughed, a deep boom, and Matt's eyes widened.

A thought wavered into his mind, a tendril of innocence darkening as it seeped into his conscious brain. He shot into an upright position, as if he had been jolted by a strong electric shock: the hairs on his arms stood on end. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he guided his left hand to his right forearm arm, overly conscious of the motion, and pinched his skin hard for a few long seconds. The burning pain was a comfort, and he did not spark awake for the second time.

With a loud, relieved sigh, Matt crumpled into the back seat, shaking. Looking at his reddening arm, he tried to smile, but the movement was shaky and awful.

The cab driver turned to face him briefly, a look of concern on his features. "Are you alright, man?"

"Y-Yeah," Matt said, wincing at how pathetic his voice sounded. "I'm fine." The driver nodded before turning back to the road, but his chatter ceased. For the rest of the drive, they both remained silent.

When he departed the vehicle, Matt left a generous tip to the driver, who headed away after dispensing false words of warm goodwill. The boy stood outside the daunting building for a moment, taking in the huge overarching structure trimmed with dazzling lights. Though it was almost three in the morning, the entire premise bustled and brimmed with heavy activity: noise assailed him from every corner, and, after the initial surprise, he was grateful for its distracting properties from the doubts in his head.

_They could arrest me when I get there. Fuck, even Asha could arrest me if she wanted to. They could send me back here._

Coaches pulled up and people filed out in steady streams. Cars and vans held smaller numbers of travellers, who hugged their families and significant others, promising to call when they arrived at their destinations, enjoy themselves, and be back soon. Others were alone, like himself, but they wheeled one or two trolley cases behind them as they stalked from the shadows into the glaring rays that circled the domed building.

It was time to go, he knew, and he took two tentative steps forward before his stride widened with confidence. Matt turned his head to the sky behind him, a dark expanse of glittering stars, before stepping into the airport.


End file.
